


Blood, Milk, and Honey

by Estivate



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Kinktober, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Psychological Horror, Somnophilia, dark asgard, filthy filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 21:47:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20842520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estivate/pseuds/Estivate
Summary: Odin’s vault contains many treasures.The best of all realms’. Where they can be safely kept when they would otherwise cause great destruction. Some items have been forfeit following cataclysmic wars. A few have been here since Asgard herself, their home worlds lost to time and now are nothing but beautiful wonders. There’s one possession in particular that stands out from the rest: no mere trinket.A boy rests in a glass display, an image of sleep so close to death it makes Thor shiver.





	Blood, Milk, and Honey

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warnings.

Odin’s vault contains many treasures.

The best of all realms’. Where they can be safely kept when they would otherwise cause great destruction. Some items have been forfeit following cataclysmic wars. A few have been here since Asgard herself, their home worlds lost to time and now are nothing but beautiful wonders. There’s one possession in particular that stands out from the rest: no mere trinket.

A boy rests in a glass display, an image of sleep so close to death it makes Thor shiver.

As pale as winter and face framed with dark hair, the sleep of an innocent for he is but a child and cannot be much younger than Thor himself.

There is an eerie blue glow around the case beneath the glass in which he slumbers, and the edges lined with hoarfrost. He wonders if the cold has somehow reached out to where he stands from the way a shudder runs down his spine. 

He recognizes him.

Though he doesn’t know how. Racks his mind for a memory, a name, or even a reason as to why the boy poses such a danger that the Allfather has imprisoned him here.

When he asks the guards his identity, they shake their heads unknowing.

Time passes enough that Thor is sure he has won the game of hide-and-seek by now. No longer cares to rejoin the rest of his friends. The guard has to clear his throat to remind him that the hour is late.

Thor is reluctant to leave, but eventually he must tear his eyes away.

He’ll be back.

*

“Who is the boy in the vault?” he asks naively, impertinently.

Frigga’s fork clatters against the plate and her hand quickly moves to disguise a gasp turned cough. Odin’s shoulders tense. Thor senses he has done something wrong and now would be good to rescind his question, but he keeps his gaze level while meeting his father’s scrutiny.

Frigga’s hand moves to clutch his. “Darling, why were you at the vault?”

Thor shrugs, secretly nervous but plays defiant “I’m allowed, aren’t I?”

Odin takes a sip from his chalice and provides a response that he thinks will be adequate. “He comes from a heinous line of enemies to the royal family. That is all. I spared him death and suffering upon the condition of his innocence.”

_He’s lying._

Thor doesn’t know how he knows, but he knows. So he keeps his tongue still, and pretends to be occupied by his plate.

*

That night, Thor is distracted by the mystery while Frigga reads to him before bedtime. She can tell his attention is not on the book, one of his favourites. Eventually when He falls asleep with his head pillowed on her lap, she searches his mind to pluck out the nascent memory – a thread that shines gold against everything else.

It pains her, but it is the only way. She had done it before when it was much harder, back when Thor called the boy brother.

_“I had hoped that we could unite our kingdoms one day – but those plans no longer matter.”_

She had fought Odin on the decision, but in the end, it was decided that taking the babe and raising him had been a mistake, and that this was for the best.

Loki had wept and clutched at his father’s robes, begging to know what he’d done wrong so that he would never do it again. Odin’s stern gaze never faltered as he looked down at his adopted son, using Gungnir to weave the enchantment until his body slumped to the floor.

Thor’s expression winces as if in a nightmare. She brushes his hair back and tries to soothe, expediating her magic while carefully construing a replacement of events. 

All those in the palace had been instructed to keep their mouths shut. Asgard’s people had short memories where their king commanded it. In the beginning a few tongues had let slip, a few heads had to roll, and Thor had cried violently. These days it’s much more manageable.

When it’s done, she gently tucks Thor into bed and gathers her own composure.

*

Thor dreams of snow. A white out so complete that he is lost.

He is looking for someone but when he tries to call, he knows not what to call by. When he scans the landscape, he knows not what to look for. When he tries to retrace his steps, his tracks have disappeared behind him.

Not watching his feet, he takes a stumble. There is the body of a boy there, as if he had recently lain down to rest. Thor kneels beside him and tries to wake him up by shaking his shoulders. There is no response. Eventually he stops shaking. Does nothing but stare at the soft flakes falling onto his eyelashes and into his hair. It’s oddly peaceful and alluring.

He thinks this might be who he’s been searching for.

So he lies down next to him, an arm over his waist, and nestles in close. It is silent all around them like the grave.

Upon waking, he remembers nothing.

The next few days, his lessons and hours at the training grounds are intensified so that there is no time to play with the others.

*

Millennia goes by and Thor thinks nothing more about the boy in the vault.

He matures into the very image Odin had envisioned: brutal, relentless, strong. The Asgardians admire their prince in hushed tones, for he is sure to extend their prosperity. Other realms take note to appeal to Odin’s heir in the same ways they have entreated the Allfather all these years. More compelled by threat than respect, they fear him: arrogant, dangerous, belligerent.

Confident since birth that the highest throne would one day be his, Thor grows expectant. Entitled. But in the meantime, there are more than enough enemies to slay, pleasures to be had, and women to bed.

He is too caught up in the euphoria of power and depravity to ever notice an absence by his side. Other than chasing the next distraction until dawn and all dawns thereafter.

*

It won’t be until centuries later when Thor finds himself near the treasure vault again. For it was only by chance in the form of skirt-chasing along the empty torch-lit corridors, far from the dining hall.

They are, both of them, very drunk.

He follows the comely lass’ giggles as they ring off the walls. She’s plied him with wine and mead all night. Recognizing an invitation as obvious as this one, he stumbles after her like a fool. So he would’ve preferred that they not have strayed so far from his rooms – would much rather prefer a _soft _surface for these things, but…alas. He thinks they might be lost.

No matter. Every corner of this palace is home to him.

He will have her. Even as she ducks into a pair of ornate, wide set doors. The pair of guards stationed there give him a wink and laugh encouragingly. She’s effectively trapped herself within. They hold the door open for him when he nears, and he grins lasciviously before entering. 

Inside the gallery, he blinks a little to stabilize his swimming vision. The magic is heavy enough like walking through dense fog. He can feel the powers of ancient and exotic artifacts all along the gallery. The way they almost whisper the pains of their captivity here. He shakes his head clear of the distractions and descends the stairs. The maid – Hilda – is entranced by the scene. Appreciating that she has found herself in Odin’s legendary vault.

They are a long way from the most-traversed areas of the palace.

She giggles at a casket that glows and flares hypnotically in tendrils of white blue.

He grabs her from behind, looping an arm about her waist to spin her forward, facing him at last. She struggles playfully, while they make out beside Jotunheim’s Casket of Winters. Distantly he wonders if she could be a spy, assigned to sneak in here under the guise of coquetry.

His father would be furious if he learned Thor’s reckless philandering resulted in palace security breach. Here of all places too. Yet. What the old man doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Thor has much more…pressing needs to attend to, and he’s been patient enough in indulging this girl’s wily ways.

He can feel the heave of her bosom pressed up against his chest as he hikes up her dress around her waist, grabbing at the plush meat of her thighs. Squeezes ungently and snarls into her neck as she squeals. “I’ve caught you at last.” and punctuates the statement by making mouthing at her breasts. Working a fat tit out from her low neckline, and latches his onto a nipple, teasing the hard nub on his tongue.

In response she pulls at his hair, nails digging into his scalp.

He’s been hard some time already, and now he makes no disguise at the bulge in his breeches, uncomfortable in its constraints.

For nothing more than a serving maid however, she certainly has a good deal of haughtiness, pushes him off of her instead of working him free. Thor wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s growing impatient at how she keeps toying with his advances.

“Perhaps a more comfortable position, your majesty?”

He growls. “You’re hardly visiting royalty.” _Or even a noble._ But he keeps that second thought to himself. “If you wanted somewhere to be wooed, you should’ve taken the pathways to the gardens.

She pouts.

Then her gaze lands on the boy in his enchanted case, slumbering. “Who is he?” she wonders. Thor comes up and wonders the same.

However, he shoves her over the side instead. Hilda yelps as her rear is positioned at a perfect height like this. Her hands try to find purchase on the glass case, but there is none. He clutches at her skirt, shifting it over those hips to give a loud, resounding smack to that round ass.

“P-prince Thor!” having the audacity to sound scandalized. As if she wasn’t the one leading him on all evening.

He grunts and fumbles on the laces, but eventually working his cock free at last. Groans as precome slicks the way and gives himself a few experimental pumps. Then he presses himself up against the crack of her buttocks, relishing in the way she whimpers in knowing at his hardness.

He tests the waters by exploring downwards, finding it not nearly as wet as he likes. Granted, the setting and circumstance aren’t exactly amorous, but surely it was better than being taken on the floor? He keeps his grip on the back of her neck, preventing Hilda from escaping.

“Isn’t this what you’ve wanted all night?” and forces his fingers past her sweet lips. The pads of his fingers pressing down on her tongue so that all she can do is attempt to nod.

He takes his saliva coated fingers and plays with her opening. In the last moments of composure, he strokes her folds until that cunt is dripping, begging.

He’s had women who were wetter, but too late does it matter as he plunges into the root, forcing out a scream. He fucks into her like a beast over the mystery boy’s case. Like this, he doesn’t have to be preoccupied with her gaze as he pumps in and out. Doesn’t have to be conscious of looking elsewhere.

The being inside looks familiar.

The being inside is beautiful.

The case trembles and shakes with the force of his thrusts. His partner is reduced to a whimpering mess, struggles having ceased. Thor pumps faster, faster, and faster. Doesn’t take his eyes off the boy’s face once.

Until he is forced to close them.

And comes.

By morning he wakes up in his own bed nursing the worst hangover he’s had in memory. He can’t even remember the maid’s name.

But he remembers what lies in the vault.

*

He gives it a few days before going back. Clears his throat and warns the guards over indiscretion. Makes an excuse about wanting to check on everything being in proper order.

They allow him in. And when he descends the staircase, his heart sets in dread at the hauntingly beautiful face.

He simply stares, for a moment or twenty, before a headache blooms, pressing against his skull, and then he does not tarry. Makes his way briskly back to his chambers and orders a servant to bring him a potion for his symptoms.

It’s potent enough to knock him out for the rest of the day.

He dreams in white.

*

Over the next few days, he is surly. He has questions he cannot voice – or at least, instinct tells him not to voice them even when Frigga and Odin look worriedly at him over the dinner table.

“Maybe your frequent festivities have been a bit much dear.”

“Nothing a big of additional diplomacy won’t have you feeling right again, boy.”

Thor smiles cheekily and doesn’t correct them.

*

The next time he visits, he gives the guards a look communicating that talk about the crown prince’s visitations will be met with harsh punishment.

Thor’s steps echo in the empty chamber as he descends the staircase to the subterraneous gallery. Drawn to the subtle glow surrounding the body within the case. Studies the figure in quiet fascination. Raven hair, alabaster skin, and roseate lips, he’s already beautiful in frozen youth, and one could only imagine the beauty the boy would’ve become, had time allowed it.

He swallows and wonders if it is not some latent residual bewitchment he casts just by being. For it feels like something has taken hold, whether or not Thor understands how. All he knows is that it has him coming back.

Keeps him coming back.

Study something long enough and some part of you will find a tether there, a sick ache that prevents him from staying away.

*

A white so vast and bleak that it feels like blindness in negative but more searing.

The nightly emptiness and bleached unseeing. He’d rather nightmares even. It drifts down perilously as if to entomb him in this wasteland. But gradually.

In any direction, for any purpose, nothing to run towards or away from.

With a jolt he wakes.

Groping in the dark until his vision settles. Feeling as if there was naught but static behind his eyes. The fire burns low in its grate, only embers. Its light struggling to illuminate his rooms. Only until his breathing calms does he notice the maidservant sleeping to his side, how she seems to be able to rest peacefully regardless. He could shake her awake and go for another round. She would groggily do all the work.

But the thought frustrates him. Promises him no satisfaction.

With a grunt, he gets up and pretends to himself that he will simply talk a walk around this wing of palace.

He has begun having these kinds of dreams more frequently. There is nothing special to them other that they are recurring and make no sense. He wonders if he should go visit the physicians about them but does not want word of it returning to his royal father’s ear if nothing can be done or if the condition does not improve.

Like the boy, it is a mystery.

Led by habit, he finds himself before the doors to the vault again.

Asgard is allowed to have her secrets, Thor is old enough now to know that therein her bloody history, are events and evidence of which he’s better off not knowing.

Yet he pushes the doors open anyway.

The guards let him through without saying a word.

It’s almost comforting here in the depths of the palace. The stones are more ancient than the rest of the structure. Within the proverbial belly of the beast, he feels the weight of Asgard’s history and conquest on his shoulders. Far more different than holding court, honoring his duties, or being scrutinized by his father, here Thor finds reality without façade.

A haunting candidness.

A living ghost.

He lifts the lid of the case and lowers it to the floor.

This is the first time he’s dared touch the figure. Any moment how he could wake up and this will all be proven to have been a dream. The boy doesn’t respond. Odin’s magic binds thick in its imprisonment. The sight of him lying so pale and still in his glass case was ghastly. Like a chrysalis that had been near to emerging but already too late in the season. Leaving it to the frost and killed it in its cocoon.

Yet he is alive, by the slight rise and fall of his chest.

It’s difficult not to imagine an identity for the unnamed boy like this, with the knowledge that a life out of stasis was still possible. Thor drags a thumb along his cheek. Knowing with a sinking feeling that the Allfather would never. Not if it has already been this long.

He pictures a youth growing up in the palace alongside other youths of nobility, within their circle of friends. Perhaps a classmate, playmate, sparring partner.

“But no, you can be none of those things can you?” he whispers sadly against his ear. He was probably the spawn of a demon, or the vessel for one.

Yet his touch is sympathetic when he strokes the side of that face.

It fills him with a longing he can’t place.

And a fear he can’t name.

Perhaps he too is cursed, and these are but the actions of a cursed man as he unlaces the opening of his trousers. The boy is turning into an obsession that Thor is powerless to stop. So he does nothing to prevent his own growing hardness at the body beneath him.

No one can ever know.

No one need ever know.

Thankfully, though the casing is not wide, the marble bier it rests upon is. He manoeuvres himself on top, legs astride and knees protesting slightly.

The fact that the temperature within the vaults is chilly due to the underground, stone walls surrounding them, does absolutely nothing to discourage his erection when he finally takes himself in hand.

Wistfully, he thinks he could still stop here. By then it’s a bygone thought almost as soon as it had weakly surfaced. He pumps into his fist and by all of Valhalla it’s even better.

Thor screws his eyes shut.

He thinks of innocent imagery. Of an adolescent childhood fantasy where the boy could reside in. Berries and cream, white-powdered cakes, tarts on a tray, and enough delicacies to fill towers of silver. A spoiled brat reclining against the cushions, eating his fill to meet the demands of a growing body. Pure sugar the axis of the world his would-be life could’ve revolved around.

He pumps his cock over that sweet face and a thick load of white is wrung over the boy’s lips, but the tongue does not dart out to taste. Just as well. For it would be salty instead of sweet.

And like this he is the sweetest thing.

Thor savours the sight before plunging down on those cool lips. Lapping and sucking at the spots where his spend landed. Cleaning him. Member not wilting.

Coming up from the unresponsive kisses, he notices how that mouth has been reddened to a shade of pink from his ministrations. And he can’t help himself. Wants to know what it’s like to get inside deeper than tongue-length. The thought makes him heady with lust, going to his groin where one release isn’t enough.

Not nearly enough for the cost of a good night’s sleep.

“I will not be denied.”

Tipping the boy’s head back and gently thumbing open his jaw, he works that mouth open wide. Trembling, he kneels above him and guides his cockhead forwards. The smooth skin of his glans smears the lips with precome, and it’s all he can do to keep himself in check. Take his time. Rests the weight of it on the child’s tongue. Its throbbing under-vein pulsing with need.

Compared to all of Thor’s sexual experiences, it’s a dizzying pleasure, this simple act.

He works his other hand behind the boy’s head, gripping the hair tight at the base. Then slowly, ever so slowly, pushes inside. The sight of how his girth strains the limits of the boy’s mouth. The angle of offering widest at the corners. Yet still he continues.

Works himself down to the base. The lack of even a gag reflex to protest at how his face is stuffed. The tip of his nose buried in his public hair.

It’s obscene and it’s perfect.

That dark, viscous coil in his belly threatens to finally give, and it’s too much to hold back, so he lefts himself thrust. In and out. In and out. The child so sweet, so pliant, so obedient in receiving him.

It only takes a handful more until his orgasm rips from his control and his hip’s movements stutter harshly and inconsiderately against the boy’s plundered mouth.

For it’s as if something has been taken. Something that he ought to claim again.

Thor pulls out and massages the throat muscles until all of it goes down. When he cleans him up enough to pass inspection, what seems to be a bit more colour on those cheeks catches his eye.

*

It’s not many days after until Thor comes back, and despite understanding the perversity of the situation, the boy is just as he’d left him.

Removing the casing’s lid, he tries finding more hints of life. Dragging the pads of his thumb over a cheek, now as pale as ever. Rubbing does nothing to draw the blood to greater circulation. The figure may as well be porcelain.

Disappointment settles in the pit of his stomach like lead.

He cups the face in both hands and leans his forehead against the child’s. A living cipher if there ever was.

And a secret, his secret.

His finger follows downwards, towards the dip at the throat until he hits the collar. A simple tunic of traditional Asgardian garb. There is something even more sinister to the idea that this boy is of Asgardian blood, and thus some family’s missing child.

Stolen or discarded? Either way unwanted now.

_Perhaps he is deformed_. _Perhaps he is maimed. Perhaps there is more than meets the eye._

Norns curse him already, but he must know. So he gently lifts the body from the case, light as a feather, as if he were merely helping to bed a slumbering youth. But looking around, he cannot remove him from the vault, and there is no other surface in this cold gallery. Instead he unclasps his cape and lays it down on the ground, settling the boy’s body on top.

Next comes the part he swallows down his shame for. He strips him. Taking care to move the limbs this way and that. The shirt is the most difficult, and after that the pants are easy.

He sucks in a breath. Naked, the boy is even more beautiful. Flawless and unblemished. Slender like a sapling.

It’s too late now to stop and think. His hands reach out to explore and follow the planes of flesh. Convincing himself there must be some mystery to uncover, but there is only his ordinate allure. Pure like snow. Almost completely immaculate and still, save for the subtle heartbeat beneath the breast.

He places his hand flat above, in some ways in awe and fear of his father’s magic. That it can both reduce and sustain like this. As he removes his hand, he becomes aware of a different throbbing sensation, and flushes in mortification.

He remembers the last time he masturbated here.

Without hesitation, his body is urging him to do it again.

_No one will ever know_. _Not even you, little one._

Glancing towards the doors, knowing that they will stay closed, he clumsily frees his erection. He gets on all fours over the boy, and guides that small, elegant hand to stroke his engorged member. Hisses behind his teeth at how perfect it feels, his cool touch against the iron red hardness.

“You’ve done this to me.”

There is no admission of guilt. Thor’s other hand starts to play with the body. Teasing along the sides, following the contours, before pausing at a nipple. Doing the same to a lass’ would have caused them to peak and harden by now, but his stay soft. Body unresponsive to the pleasure. Not even when he brings his mouth down to suckle, teeth catching on nothing, but tonguing at the nubs.

Everything about him is soft and perfect. It makes his breath catch when Thor loses control and spends early. Using that hand to milk him, pump out every drop. It coalesces onto his taut stomach, flowing into the navel. Cream white come on silk white skin. It’s exquisite.

He knows he’ll have to clean the boy up again later, and therefore cannot simply leave the evidence, but it is a shame, for he makes such a beautiful sight that Thor commits it to memory for a few moments longer before moving to lap it up.

Until his cock twitches again and his imagination stirs to other areas where the slick could be more useful. The blood pools down into his cock so quickly once more that Thor’s head spins. Yes, let it keep for now. While he worked himself back to hardness between those lily pale thighs. Thrusting in and out, caught on the glide between boyhood fat underneath the skin. The sensation like velvet all along his ramrod length. His breathing becomes heavy. Laboured.

And that’s when he feels it.

Something not quite right beneath the juncture of those legs.

Like a seam.

Like…

When he parts them, the split of a cunt.

For a moment his confusion forces him to stop. Because the boy most assuredly possessed a cock…but unless his eyes are playing tricks on him. He probes a finger between those perfect rosebud lips.

Sure enough. He finds a channel so tight it’s difficult to even force in the finger.

_Just what exactly was this creature?_

A half breed? A cuckoo child? One of Odin’s affairs? Or perhaps the forbidden evidence of his mother’s?

His mind is in tatters. Until it hurts to think from confusion. So he ceases further thought. Because what did it matter now? That he is presented here like this, Thor ready to pillage this spoil, one amongst many in this room of private spoils.

His face splits in a forlorn smile. His cock is harder than ever and close to bursting.

“You whore.” He whispers sweetly, condemningly.

Coating his fingers in the spend, he works the boy open below. Nostrils flaring at the pressure of that nascent yet nubile body. It seems to take an age. The way that cunt naturally resisted the intrusion. But Thor had spilled copiously, and the fertility god’s come did wonders for the way he induced that channel to lubrication. Breathing ragged and cockhead leaking against his thigh, Thor reached the limits of his patience and preparation. Removing his fingers, he positioned himself at that tantalizing opening. Admiring it before the plunder.

Legs spread wide astride Thor’s hips, the raven-haired youth looked as placid as before. “If you choose not to wake, I won’t be able to help myself.” He implores, a small part desperate, but already too far gone.

Nothing.

Not a flicker of the lashes or tensing of the muscles.

It helps. That the boy is so relaxed and accepting.

He pushes. Slowly, cleaving inside like carving a marble statue. The only heat is that of basal internal body temperature, instead of arousal, but the contrast is delicious, and it’s all he can do to not split the boy in two. He urges himself back from the heights of pleasure. Carefully. Careful.

Eases out, then back in again.

Gradually, with each thrust making gains. Upon the breach of his prick going deeper is the blood of his maidenhead. It stains the white flesh a popped cherry red against the mound and along the inside of the thighs. Even now the boy looks like a treat. An alabaster body against the red backdrop of Thor’s cape and colored by the crimson of his lost virginity.

“Let me take care of you.” he murmurs against his ear, rutting inside and relishing in the drag of his member along the tight but slicked walls below, with the already lessening degree of friction from the blood. “Since no one else has.” before catching that delicate mouth in a kiss.

The boy does not say no.

His balls draw tight as release builds in his abdomen and back of his thighs. He comes in convulsive motions, hips jerking violently, dying white from the inside.

*

From that day forth it is not uncommon for the crown prince to spend his evenings inside the treasure vault. After all, the guards can be coerced to keep quiet.

*

The years go by and thus the day comes when Thor is to be married. It is an occasion that spares no expense in its extravagance. In keeping to the alliance with the next most powerful realm, Odin has selected a most political advantageous bride of good blood and breeding. Her hair is a shade of flaxen purer than Thor’s. Her lips are more claret than wine. To call her beautiful is a flimsy description.

By as they repeat their vows upon the altar, lives now tied to one another, Thor cannot help that he feels nothing for her.

During the feast, she attempts small gestures in the hopes that he will take kindly to them: filling his cups, slipping her hand in his, sitting nearer than the distance he put between then. All of them he shirks away. He is cold to her and he doesn’t know why.

She keeps her perfect smile as the night wears on, but by the end it no longer reaches her eyes.

After dinner, he tells her that he shall meet her in their bedchambers in a short while. Takes the chance to remove himself from the hall, and to the vault once more.

The boy is as pristine in presentation as ever.

Thor looks at him sadly, wondering if he should end this behaviour. He is married now. So it seems. With any luck she will prove fruitful and his line assured.

His line…yes there is the matter of consummation that he will need to attend to before the night is over.

Hesitantly, he removes the body from its case again. Reverently. Regretfully. “Let this be the last time.” He pleads. Wondering why it is he’s doing so to someone as good as dead.

His ceremonial armour hampers his movements, and all that gold he’s decked in feels heavy on his body. Heavier somehow, than Mjolnir on his belt. Heaviest most is his heart. There is an uncertain dread.

But as he routinely works himself to hardness against the boy’s body, that sensation is neither here nor there. He simply uses it, harnesses this sickness churning in him like a storm.

This time he doesn’t allow himself to come. He places the body back and makes haste for the marital bed. His bride has already prepared herself and starts upon his arrival. Almost as if she did not expect him to actually show. Or perhaps it’s something she sees in his expression. Her gaze alights for a moment and there’s something like hope there behind her green eyes.

A hope that perhaps her husband desires her.

He swallows thickly. He had chosen her for that shade of green.

As they strip and get into bed, he offers no sweet words, no gestures of courtship. “Turn around and get on all fours.” he instructs, knowing the words seem crueler than he intended. She looks away suddenly as if scorned and most certainly embarrassed. He wants to make this as easy as possible on them both.

While he’s still hard.

He pulls her hips against him. Thinking there should be more than this to the nuptials. But in the end, there’s only duty and obligation to the crown.

He takes her from behind as they couple like beasts. Like how he would go to battle: aggression and blood lust. His cock feels like a hammer, meant only for blunt force trauma.

She muffles her cries into the pillows as tears stream down her face.

He comes to the image of another’s.

*

His seed takes and she soon falls pregnant.

It is a mercy for them both.

He looks forward to the child’s birth. Thinks that he shall love them as he has never been able to properly do so, and that perhaps fatherhood will come more naturally than marriage.

He has not visited the vault since.

*

Then suddenly he is king.

As he was always meant to be. Odin Allfather’s passing is not one without preparations for contingency. The coronation is even more lavish than his wedding. Asgardians filling the streets and halls to cheer his name as he ascends the steps to be seated upon Hliðskjálf, the highest point in the realms.

Upon the apex of Yggdrasil, where all must bow before him, his smile only slightly falters when he looks towards the faceless crowd, eyes catching on no one’s in particular.

Gungnir, glory, and gold.

All that was his birthright has come to pass.

That night he dreams of white once more.

*

His sleep becomes nightmares bleached of meaning. Like bones without a grave or sheaves of paper without words. By night he is tormented by the wordless why, and by day he becomes irritable with unrest. He wonders if it is the same old cursed affliction.

It never changes, the white out of snow in its completion. And though they are of Asgard’s eternal summer, Thor comes to despise anything that might remind him of winter. In his chambers, a fire roars every evening. His queen does not share her bed with him, and he does not begrudge her, but the nights are cold without a warm body.

The dreams do not stop, and he worries they never will stop. Until he can take it no longer and one night, travels down to the vault in the dark and by memory.

He slips inside the doors, eyes tired and needing respite.

The boy remained the same. Odin’s death did not sever the magic that kept him in stasis. He steps forward, removes the lid, and kisses those cold lips like absolution.

*

_This is the only way. _He tells himself.

Thrusting into the boy’s body below and devouring his mouth with his own. Holding him against him in a parody of a lover’s embrace. Now that he is Allfather, there is nothing and no one he needs to deny himself. The boy’s body is evidence of this. Before where he would take the utmost care in keeping him unblemished, now there are the marks of bites and bruises from frequent use. They stand out so captivatingly against his white skin. Hues that serve to give the figure a bit more colour, even if it never changes anything in the response. Thor’s hands fit so neatly on that waist, pumping him up and down. His cock slotted into that plump cunt as his rough fingers teased between the wet, silken folds. Old spend leaks out of his ass and dribbles down to the floor with the motions.

“Jotunheim is no more.” He tells him in a low hush.

In a show of power against that race of rebellious insurgents, it had been an easy thing to order their annihilation. He had no love for the Jotnar and their miserable little frozen realm of snow. He will not miss them in finishing the job Odin started eons past.

He chuckles mirthlessly. Then groans as he seats the boy down to the hilt, grinding his cockhead against that sweet cervix. It’s a wonder that a body so small in comparison could take it all. He breaks the kiss to chase what he senses is nearing. He is addicted to this being, the way those holes greedily took him in. His hand pressed against the lower abdomen, feeling his own length work its way inside.

He’s claimed him over and over throughout the years, and he intends on never stopping. “You’re mine.”

He clutches him to his chest, rhythm breaking away, shooting his load inside. When he’s finished, he pulls out with a satisfying squelch, and marvels at the slight bulge in a belly overfilled with come.

*

The years go by. The remaining realms cower in fear while putting on a brave face. Asgard’s golden reign continues.

*

“Who is the boy in the vault?” he asks naively, impertinently.

Only a few centuries old, Magni is already the spitting image of his father during the same age.

Thor pauses at the table. Trying to come up with an answer that will satisfy. His mother hasn’t looked up, too preoccupied with the woven jewels on her hem. Not that she would know.

“A relic.” from where he can’t say, but his tone of voice was one that brokered no further comment. He can tell it doesn’t sate Magni’s questioning eyes. Yet with remarkable restraint, his son chooses not to pursue the topic.

He does not end up forbidding his child from going to the vaults. The doors are sealed by seidr to open only to those of his line. To redo the commissioned spell work was too much effort in only for keeping a child at bay. In time, it will be inevitable that Magni will come to the same unanswered conclusion.

Thor lets it pass.

At night, when the halls are dim and Magni’s curiosity insatiable, soundless footsteps make their way to the vault, wherein lies Allfather Thor’s greatest treasure. The ancient doors creak open at his touch. Ancient and powerful artifacts that he is helpless to resist.

Everything wondrous, but the young prince is not here for them. He is here for one item in particular that is not like the others.

A boy that rests in a glass display.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've made it this far, I'm dying to know your thoughts. 
> 
> Follow at my [tumblr](https://estivate9.tumblr.com) or (more often) [twitter.](https://twitter.com/Estivate9)


End file.
